


Damnatio Memoriae

by alphaArietis (Hostilitas)



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/M, Gen, Multi, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:42:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25194871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hostilitas/pseuds/alphaArietis
Summary: Memories can be erased.Actions can't be forgotten.
Kudos: 1





	Damnatio Memoriae

— All I can say is that it's going to cost you. And it's going to be _expensive_.

Medina can hold her own against the threats. Maybe they're not entirely just for show this time, but she doesn't mind. Javier's always been a terrible poker player, and his insistent denial of someone else having better cards translates perfectly into his shitty negotiation skills.

Javier, under his black peacoat, keeps one of his hands behind his back, the other sliding two fingers side to side over the tabletop he's looming over. His two goons, one standing in front of the back door and one by the archway that connects back to the hallway, look about as threathening as a couple of bouncers-turned-criminal can look. 

Which is to say, considerably, when you're dead certain that they have, bare minimum, two loaded guns each and it's a coin toss whether at least one of them is a werewolf. Medina's arms stay crossed, her legs not even considering the idea of running away, though. This is her goddamn office in her goddamn store. If Javier is threathening her at all, this is not where it's going to work.

— Name your price already. Stop being annoying if all you want is some money.

— Oh, Javi, please. Now it's you who's wasting my time. You ask for something priceless, you give me something priceless in return.

— God damnit, woman! 

Javier hits his hands on the tabletop, rattling the crystal ashtray where Medina's cigarette, holder and all, rest while this wretch of a man keeps trying and failing to have a full hissy fit. 

He hunches over, and Medina is hit by the immediate desire to spit on him. His face is full of sharp angles and stubble. Both qualities that disgust her. 

— Screaming is not going to make me start working any faster.

Thankfully, the olive-brown of his skin doesn't take well to the red of inflamed anger, or he would be looking like he's about to fucking explode. His eyebrows furrow, and he has the mouth of someone who just found out the bartender fucked up the amount of lime in their gin and tonic. 

— Javi, you already have an idea of what I'm going to ask, or you wouldn't be so angry, now would you? 

When he rattles the table again, before stomping around her office once more, she's fully expecting him to do something stupid. Maybe he'll actually try to point a gun at her, like a big man. Maybe he'll start breaking stuff, and as long as he doesn't touch the portuguese vase on the corner or even attempts to reach her rare herbs cupboard, she can keep the anger at bay. 

Instead, he stops in the center of the room. Right over her favorite rug. Medina immediately consider that she'll need to have that thing cleaned, as there's no way his boots have endured a good cleaning in the last five years. The same fucking boots she could never get him to throw out.

— Leave us. Wait by the car. 

Finally, Medina has something to be actually surprised by. She raises her eyebrows during the time it takes for his goons to shift around, wait for him to confirm his order with a dismissive gesture, and then actually leave them both alone, sounding the bell over the door on their way out. 

Ugh, it brings her flashbacks of the last time that he, sloshed out of his mind, tried to hit on her during a party in the Gardens. Medina busies herself with smoking again so that she won't feel her skin crawl when Javier sits down across the table. 

— I want to know if you _can_ do it.

— Insult my abilities again and I'll raise the price. 

— Just-- _look_ , you know what I'm fucking asking is fucking complicated or you wouldn't be acting like such a fucking bitch about it. Can you do it or not?

She doesn't want to really think about it.

Not the job. It's a very immoral thing to do. Whatever. She left her moral compass in her other dress. 

What she tries to not consider is how Javier seems _actually worried_ that this might not work. That even her handiwork might not be enough. 

He's an asshole. He's a thug. A bully that tries to use his position among the Controlled to make people do what he wants. The way-too-confident guy who used to rip right through his denial when plans didn't work out to get things done anyway. Headstrong. Stubborn. Annoyingly sexy.

They've had the displeasure of an on-again-off-again personal relationship for years. Medina has never witnessed him being _worried_ before.

That's what a real red flag looks like, and she knows it.

— All you want is for me to cover up a hit by altering the memories of the last person standing, right? Give me an opening and the details and I'll have it done. 

— The problem is that they... no one can _know_ he had his memory altered. It has to be delicate. The guy needs to _believe_ he's the real killer.

— Javier, for fuck's sake. Who's _they_? What the hell are you trying to pull? You don't look like yourself, you look like you're about to crumble into dust.

— Oh, so you care about my mental health now?

— Don't... start this again.

Is it _that_ much to ask to keep this professional? Yes, so she got a little bit too much revenge on him and messed with his memory once. She's definitely overstepped the response to him taking an insult a bit too far, and then he found out and it totally threw off the delicate balance of their hate-love thing! Who cares!

— I want to end this little conversation as quickly as you do. Say if it's possible or not.

— It's... 

Medina gestures vaguely with the cigarette holder on her hand, accidentally knocking off some ash on the floor and grumbling about it. Her black lips contort into many different shapes as she considers the question.

— It's... complicated. _Feasibly_ complicated. As long as you give me some god damn details and my payment.

— For the price I know you're going to ask, I'm gonna need more than "feasible".

— Agh! I can FUCKING do it, Javier! 

Now it's her turn to slam her fist on the table. Javier responds by doubling down the intensity of his death-stare. Medina's green eyes meet the hazel-brown of his, and she suppresses a sudden urge to shift her weight around on her chair. Or try to throw said piece of furniture at him. 

— God, Javier, you are _such_ a belittling, condescending… urgh.

After completely breaking her self-promise to not be irritated by her kind-of-sort-of-not-really-definitely-ex, Medina feels she's about to blow a fuse. But she takes a deep breath before trying to escalate the situation any further. Javier looks like he's either holding back a grin or considering whether he can pull his gun out before she can fully vocalize a spell. She hates that she can't tell which one it is.

He looks so similar to the Javier of a year ago... and yet so different. Rougher. 

— ... Do you still remember the dead drop in the Market?

— Depends. Am I going to find a letter and a full lock of Olaf's hair on it at a certain time and date?

— Best I can do is Pyotr's hair. 

— Oh, Sandra's hair it is then.

Both of them arise from their chairs at the same time. Javier knocks his over backwards with the sudden force of his movement. Medina leaves her cigarette holder on the ashtray again, one hand still on the tabletop while the other balls up to a fist.

— Elena's hair or I'm walking, Medi.

— Just remember that when you come back you better have a lock of the fucking _Mayor's_ hair, and we both know you're not gonna find that on his head. You're negotiating with _me_ , not the other way around.

Javier's arms shake when he nears her. His eyes stand a half-head above hers. One of his hands slowly reach for his belt, either for a knife or a gun, and Medina's not sure which one she's expecting more. 

They try to bore a hole into each other's skulls with staring power alone for almost a full minute.

Javier's other hand, on the table, touches hers as he lurches a little closer. Enough for her to smell the cologne she made for him eight months ago.

She feels like a kid being told to go to bed early when she realizes he's really not playing along in the way she expects him to.

— Olaf's hair it fucking is, then.

He holds back an insult. "Insufferable witch", "annoying pest", perhaps "intolerable ass". Medina avoids responding for now.

— Dead drop at 7PM, three days from now.

She hopes for the "insufferable witch", her favorite one, and gets annoyed when he just... doesn't say it. Sadly, he just leaves room for her to answer.

— ... Deal.

Their hands part away. No handshake. No nothing. Barely a touch, and it's Javier's that moves first. 

— Thank Christ.

He turns his back to walk into the hallway almost instantly, considering this conversation to be completely done.

— ... Wait.

The discussion has fully halted when he slowly turns his head around. Medina realizes there's something missing in his expression. Along with the hatred, something else melts away too. He doesn't ask her what she wants, yet still waits for the response.

— Javi, can I just... say something?

Medina brings her hands close to her chest, rubbing her fingers over the deep-ish nail marks on the inside of her palm now.

— What? Are we done or do you need to waste my time some more?

His words come out... weak. There's no real punch behind them. They really are, at their core, just words. It's hard to even understand, with only the few seconds she gets to form an actual answer, how this all came to be.

There's a million things she could say, but they never really did the honesty bit of a relationship. Both too shady for that. Too strong in their isolation. If anything slipped by, it was either in a drink-addled conversation or unimportant enough for no one to use against them in the future.

Medina swallows her honesty and a lump in her throat before getting her final words in.

— ... Your... hair looks nice that way. 

It's not even close to what she really wants to say. 

It won't do.

Still, it's the only thing that comes out.

Javier's eyes shift away in tiny increments. He takes his sweet time moving his head back out towards the corridor. Medina studies what she can see of his profiled expression. Neutral. 

He brings a hand up to scratch the back of his nape, caressing some of the rougher dark-greyish bristles left over from the recent haircut, before readjusting the coat over his shoulders.

Medina tries to keep herself steady, but seeing him go from 100 to 0 so quickly just reminds her of everything she did. She crosses her arms under her chest, considering saying something else. Anything to get him to hang around for another couple of minutes. 

Believing that he's a _little_ bit of a better player nowadays and is just holding his cards near his chest sounds easy. Comfortable, even.

But Javi's always been rough. Rough to deal with. Rough-looking. Rough words, rough touch.

Rough truths. Such as accepting that he really has nothing else to say to her, as he walks away.

— ... Goodbye, Medina. 

When the bell on the shop's front door rings the second time, and the door closes again, Medina sighs, alone, perching her hips on the table and staring at the rug on the floor.

God, she wishes she could wipe her own fucking memory sometimes.

* * *

First-best, second-best, all the way to fifth-best bar in Netunia are all occupied positions. Unsurprisingly, Netunia's position as an underwater city with no open "emigration" routes, more complications and crime than anyone cares to handle, and a lot of surprisingly cheap liquor, makes for a perfect storm of high demand for bars. 

"The last bar in Netunia" was the Tipsy Moray's unofficial slogan, accompanying in the imagination the half-failing neon sign they had outside, of a moray eel holding a beer bottle on its mouth. It didn't have an official slogan. Why would it?

It wasn't the _thinking man's_ bar. Or the _working man's_ bar. Or the _immoral man's_ bar. 

The Moray was an almost-shitty bar with almost-shitty drink for almost-shitty people to come to when they were out of options. The _fucked up man's_ bar.

Nevertheless, Henriette, or Henry, the Tipsy Moray's one and only barkeep, still cleaned the chipped tables and dented glasses as best as they could. Whether the Moray expected real visitors or not, all patrons were treated to Henry's beaming joy, their quips, their messy blonde hair and dirty overalls, and the house's shitty liquor.

Medina wasn't ever sure if she was considered a 'real visitor' at the Moray. Henry did consider her that, but they also didn't really have any fancier glasses or top-shelf stuff to show some real appreciation. Medina had to content herself with knowing that the vodka swirling around in her glass, waiting to be knocked back, was at the very least the "almost-okay" vodka.

Continuing a conversation that's been going on for, what, five, ten minutes since she came in, Medina decides to change their last chit-chatty subject into a comment about her impending doom in liquid form.

— Is your boss ever going to invest in some real fucking liquor for a change? _One_ bottle of something halfway decent would be enough.

— Eh, you know him.

— _You_ don't even know him, Henry.

— True. If I ever have the pleasure to know who the fuck I work for, I'll be sure to waste my first question with that one.

Gathering up the courage, Medina finally decides to bite the bullet and drink--

— So, Javier's reappeared, huh?

\-- and Henriette's sense of comedic timing almost makes her choke. The fucker even snort-chuckles as Medina coughs, both from swallowing awkwardly and because the almost-okay vodka is, accordinly, almost-hostile. 

— [cough] _Asshole!_

Henry continues drying out a few glasses with an old rag behind the bar while Medina recomposes herself. She finds it hard to tell whether she's more annoyed at them, at Javier, or at herself. 

At this _exact_ moment in time, probably Henry. They've known each other for years, and she still has no idea how they manage to be so dead-on all the time. 

Bars, even the ones which are probably just fronts for some type of criminal operation, can't be held together on spit and elbow grease alone. Alongside the unofficial slogan, the Moray has an unofficial feature: spend enough time chatting with the barkeep and they'll give you the read of your life. 

Might not solve your problems. Might make you angry. Might just be really, really funny for everyone else other than you. It will still be true, though.

— Okay, _how_ do you do this? What have I done that could possibly suggest this to you?

Medina's deflecting. She knows she's deflecting. She'd really rather not talk about this. "This" being the entire fucking reason why she came down here to talk in the first place. 

Henriette puts the glass and rag down and picks up a bottle from a cabinet under the bar to put another shot down on Medina's glass. After doing so, they sigh, holding a despicable amount of cockiness on their lips.

— Dina, you sure you wanna know?

— Yes. This is annoying, and I'd really love to stop being annoyed today.

— Pattern, girl. 

— Ugh, can you be less specific?

— Sure. It's the way you talk.

Henry's now fully hunched over the bar, supporting their head on their hands while Medina's expressions travel between cross, vexed, aggrieved, and then settle on displeased as she lays her chin down on the tabletop over her flat-down hands. 

— Come on! I'm having a shitty day here, throw me a bone. 

— Going straight to the dog jokes today, are we?

— Please, honey?

Answering to either the half-pout in Medina's lips, their favorite pet name, or both, Henry rolls their eyes and fake-grunts, not letting their own smile go.

— Fine... look, Dina, it's just that there's only one topic that makes you want to come here and talk, but simultaneously makes you dance around your drink and talk for ten minutes before taking even one sip.

It's what she was expecting. She should have known it was something like that. People are relatively predictable, and she can't exclude herself from that rule.

Medina just sighs, closing her eyes, trying to brace herself for whenever the second shot inevitably goes down. 

— I miss him, Henry…

— Yeah, I know. 

Although the effort to take as much bite out of the commentary as possible, Medina still feels like she has pestered Henriette for way too long about this. Anyone would be nauseous about whatever bullshit they've had going on after all these years, the participants themselves included. 

Still, it's... a bit surprising, this time. Not too much. Enough.

— What did he want, though? I gathered that he was trying to avoid you.

— ... He asked me to do a job for him. A hard one.

When Henry takes a while to answer, Medina's eyes open back up, seeing their eyebrows slightly raised. 

— ... Like what, the _sexy_ kind?

— Ugh, no, not the _sexy_ kind, the _real_ kind.

— Sorry, "hard one" made me think this was a sex thing. Would it be better or worse if it was a sex thing?

Medina glares at their eyes, and Henry puts their hands up, looking away, backing off from the question. 

Medina takes the opportunity to drink the whole fiery content of her glass, hitting it hard against the tabletop to try, unsuccesfully, to make it burn a little less. Where the fuck does the government get this shit from? 

— Oh, _god_ I miss his dick. Pour me another one.

— Absolutely not. You know my rules.

— ...Yeah, that's probably for the best.

Henry starts cleaning some more dishes. There really isn't much else to do around while they talk. The only other patron has been knocked out over a corner table for the last hour, and apparently his status as a regular is keeping him from being bothered. For now.

— Talk about something I haven't heard a million times before. There's a job involved?

— ... Mmhmm. Memory wipe job.

— Sounds easy.

— Not really. Not only is it a memory _replacement_ job, I don't even have the details yet because he was being so cagey about it--

— He wasn't _being_ cagey, he _is_ cagey. Half-listening to his last business conversation here gave me a headache after five minutes.

— Fine, whatever, cagier than normal. But whatever, it's more because... you know. It's been a while since I've done one of these. 

— So? What, did you develop a conscience while I wasn't looking?

— No, I'm just a little nervous that I might be rusty.

It's a lie, but Henry doesn't need to know that.

Medina isn't exactly an emotionally mature person most of the time. Describing what a "conscience" feels like is a little out of her field of expertise.

But there is something round, dense and heavy hanging around right under her heart. This uncomfortable ball of unknown material that comes up when she thinks about her marks.

Hitmen have the benefit of never having to think about their victims again. Memory wipers - not that she knows any other than herself - have to be confronted, sometimes, with the knowledge that there are people out there just going about their business without ever knowing that they had the truth robbed from them.

Worst part was that sometimes they even found out. But Medina could only take memory away. The memories she could give back were always artificial. 

Henry, after a heavy sigh, shrugs, looking towards the near-comatose patron, probably wondering if they already deserve the pitcher of ice water to the head or not.

— You'll do fine, if that's what you're really worried about. You're a damn good wizard.

— Do you even know any other wizards?

— No, but I'm trying to make you feel better. Is it working?

— No. Honey, what would make me feel better is another glass of this garbage water.

Medina daintly lifts her glass and waves it on the air, trying to go past Henry's eternal two-shot-limit.

— Dina, as I've explained to you many times, one glass loosens the jaw…

Henry walks back towards her, taking the glass from her hand. 

— Two glasses loosen the tongue…

Reaching down to pickup the "garbage water" bottle again, Henry pours another shot into the cup. 

— _Three_ glasses loosen _everything else_. 

Henry then pretends to give the glass back to her. When Medina starts to move her hand, they pull the glass away and knock the shot back, taking it much better than Medina ever could. Henriette's lips only wince a tiny bit, and then their face is back to normal as they place the cup back near the sink.

— Just because your girlfriend isn't around I have to suffer the teasing?

— Shut up, Fran's busy. I'm, as always, trying to save you from yourself. Plus, I'm pretty sure you're going to tell me "I have shit to do anyway" and leave in like, five minutes or less. 

Unfortunately, Medina's probably better off not going fully drunk. Yet. Respectable people only get hammered _after_ taking care of their obligations, such as making sure their dead drop isn't compromised. 

Fucking around with her purse for a bit, Medina pulls her pocketwatch out, already annoyed before even looking at the time. Why even bother? Henry's so insistently _right_ about these things. Confirming that the small hand teeters close to the 7 only serves to make her angrier. 

— Fran's always busy. I'm still not sure your girlfriend really exists.

— She might not be such a big fan of _existing_ \- Henry makes gestures of grandeur with their hands to emphasize the point — as much as your boyfriend, but yeah, she's real. 

— Oh, bite me. 

— Oh, one of these nights I just might, Dina.

Medina shoves the watch back into the purse, producing some money from her wallet even though she really thinks that it's the Tipsy Moray who should be compensating people for coming in. Leaving her stool, Medina readjusts her shawl... then, before walking towards the exit, she looks at Henry again, with a confused look on her face.

— Did you mean that as a sex thing or as a werewolf thing?

Henry follows the answer with a quick wink.

— Both. 

Medina rolls her eyes, chuckling. At least one of her two oldest acquaintances still manages to get her spirits up. The two shots also help, but it's mostly Henriette.

It's a quick visit for now, but it's enough to face some more of the bullshit Netunia keeps throwing at her. 

— Alright. See you later, hon. Got some crimes to do. 

— Say hi to Javi for me! 

Pretending to ignore Henry's last words, Medina throws herself back into the underwater world outside.


End file.
